


Byte Crossed

by answeringquestionswithquestions



Category: Mac/PC - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:56:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/answeringquestionswithquestions/pseuds/answeringquestionswithquestions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because I feel like this could be an actual thing... if I had the motivation to make this an actual thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Byte Crossed

            From the moment my father put a camera in my hands, I knew exactly what I was meant to do. There was something about having the power to capture the unexpected smile on a child’s face, or grasping that quick look of longing of a lovers goodbye that made photography an art—a means of expression. And the beauty of it was that it is infinite: there will always be something different to document.

            Living in New York just made the inspiration easy to grasp. No matter how intimidating the city was, there were always kind strangers and killer cafes to keep one’s nerves at bay; the best quick escape, though, has always been Central Park and earphones. Looking at the scenery was only enhanced when looking through the viewfinder. Today was different though because a single frame left me unable to move.

            I took the photo and slowly lowered my camera, wondering if the life-version view was somehow better than the camera’s perception: it was.

            With a book resting neatly on his lap and his glasses resting comfortably on the strong angle of his nose, the man seemed far from the city parameters. There was nothing more beautiful than that concentration; his investment in the story was pliantly displayed in his facial expressions.

            I picked up my camera and, for the first time in years, retook a photo.  Zomming in, I boxed the man’s face into the screen and processed his features. From his broad shoulders to his naturally dark hair, he quickly became the center of my artistic priority. His eyes were framed by precise rims that further defined his angled jawline. The 5 o’clock shadow dusted around his thin lips and dipped into the collar of his loosened, white button-up.

            He looked out of place—too troubled—to be outside reading a book in the early afternoon mid-week.  It was only when I had the lens focused on his hands that I felt his stare. I quickly took the photo and lowered my camera to meet those eyes face first.

            Eye-contact had always made me uneasy; like my mother, my people skills were forced and not natural. So instead of approaching and introducing myself, I wearily tried to pack my camera away. My hands, refusing to cooperate, dropped the bag.

            If I were embarrassed before, the shame hit a whole new level. I kneeled down and started to collect my things, shoving them into the laptop case as quickly as possible.  Before I had even half of my belongings off the ground, those same hands started helping me.  I stopped and gave a shy smile as he handed my wallet and some scraps of papers.

            “These are good,” the sound was rough and screamed trouble—he _sounded_ like a lover.

            “Thanks,” I responded I looked through the rough sketches in my hand. “I hope the idea turns out as well in reality.”

            His smile lazy smile did things to my heart that I would never admit too.

            “Password?” He held out the iPhone in his left hand, the screen bright with anticipation.

            “I think the point of a password is to keep strangers _out._ ”

            “Then how does, said stranger, give someone their number?” The cool confidence his posture produced was enticing: he redefined my definition of smooth.

            I gave out a short laugh, “6—5—4---3---2---6,” I watched intently as he punched in the code, “and I must warn you, if you run now the tracking device will still work.”

            He glanced at me over the tops of his glasses, the ends of his lips perking upwards. Turning the phone around, he gestured for me to take it.

            “I accept an explanation,” his eyes cast down the bag, “rather soon.”

            We stood, his height towering an easy seven inches over me.

            “Plus, it seems I’ll have to convert you.”

            “Convert me from…?”

            “Your phone choice.”

 

            That smile screamed predator, and I was all too willing to be his prey. Which led us to our ultimate mistake; I, Mac Toshin, the future-founder of Apple, fell in love with Peter Cal Collins, the CEO of PC.

**Author's Note:**

> I like criticism (I really do).


End file.
